


belle noire

by WingsOfTime



Series: roza [9]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Found Family, Gen, Necromancy, Strong Friendships, duality of plant, salad commander flirting but not knowing that he is flirting, scene-skipping, some liberties taken with magic but still in the realm of realism, this wasn’t Meant to be trahearne x commander but it leaked through, time span from season 1 ish to pof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24083734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: A look at how the Commander's magic grew and changed as he did. Darkness can be made of many things.
Relationships: Trahearne/Male Player Character (Guild Wars)
Series: roza [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1252070
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	belle noire

Trahearne’s first impression of Roza isn’t the most… favourable one.

Thankfully, that changes. He soon learns that behind the veneer of intellectual superiority and condescension lies a bright mind that is quick to cling to academic pursuits, if sometimes dismissive to those he meets along his path. To Roza, a young sapling and in his own mind a gifted Valiant, there is no purpose in compassion, in kindness, or in deferral to others for reasons that cannot be thought out in more than one sentence. But just because he prefers not to use his heart does not mean, necessarily, that it is not there.

Trahearne tries his best to nudge him in the right direction, and though it is a struggle at times, they establish a rapport with surprising ease. Roza barely hides his wonder and fascination with Trahearne’s abilities—he is not old enough to know how to, for a while—and he himself finds it something of a relief to speak to someone who sees a learning opportunity, of all things, in his interest in the dead and the decaying. By the time a year has yawned by, Roza’s crude edges have been abraded into curves, if perhaps sharp ones. At least he still seems to greatly value Trahearne’s advice.

“Why did you first want to study necromancy?” Trahearne asks him one evening in his tent, on the tail end of a private meeting about the distribution of the Pact’s resources following Zhaitan’s defeat.

Roza, about to leave, glances up. The corner of his mouth curls.

“Are the rumours going round again?” he asks. He _tchs_ , a human habit he has probably picked up from the rather stern cook in charge of the mess hall. “Marshal, you know better than to believe those.”

His tone is sly rather than offended, as it might have been a season ago. _That_ is another thing that is new. The way he… speaks sometimes, the curve in his voice. Trahearne wouldn’t mind, if he didn’t get the curious feeling that he is being used as a test subject. At least Roza does not bring that tone out in meetings, or the Pact would never get anything done.

He clears his throat, which earns him a curious shift of dark eyes. “They may be. But I ask mostly for my own curiosity. You seemed to lean towards the art even before we met.”

Roza regards him, and after a second says evenly, “The Risen were the first creatures I encountered. I was curious about what magic animated them, and if I could replicate it. I partially succeeded. Minions have no sentience.”

The rumours are somewhat true, then. Still, Trahearne notes the clipped tone of his voice and decides not to inquire further, instead offering a smile to soften it. “But you moved away from reanimation to find power elsewhere. You could be an academic novelty if you put your mind to it, Roza—and impressed the right asura.”

Roza shrugs one shoulder, but his slight smile says that he doesn’t fail to notice the compliment. They can be dangerous things to dole out to him, high as his ego is, but Trahearne finds that as the weeks yawn by he minds less and less. Even the proudest cat needs to be fed, and especially if it earns him a smile, he finds he is bothered with too much nowadays to catch himself from tossing out a treat.

“I’ve been working on something,” Roza says, and there is the faintest trace of his old eagerness in his voice, carefully hidden under smoothness. “Can I show you?”

Trahearne raises his head, curious. “Be my guest, Commander.”

~*~

Roza is kind of… small.

It isn’t the _first_ thing Kasmeer notices about him, of course. It’s maybe the second, or the third if she’s being generous. He’s shorter than even her, just by a few inches, and that doesn’t happen often with anyone who isn’t an asura.

The fourth thing she notices about him isn’t something she thinks about for a while.

Marjory—the beautiful, talented, nightlight of her life—is a necromancer. Kasmeer has gotten used to the feeling of her magic, how it _pulls_ from people (or krait, or karka, or Mordrem) until they're husks. So she isn’t too bothered, or surprised, really, when Roza’s does mostly the same thing. He… uses it differently, she thinks, but she’s no expert on necromancy, and it’s hard for her to tell. Jory has told her that he’s strong, but besides that and what she can guess by herself, she has no basis by which to judge.

She and Roza are in the Heart of Maguuma, the wretched place, scouting ahead. The air is grim, even though the jungle is lively. Kasmeer can’t feel Mordremoth like the sylvari can, but Roza’s bearing has gone from cool to cold, and the grimness in his eyes that used to be fleeting now seems to be carved into them. Kasmeer doesn’t distrust him, doesn’t think he’ll turn, but she hopes he can stay strong for long enough to see this all come to an end.

She opens her mouth to tell him this, that she still believes in him despite everything, despite his bark and his branches and the ice in the Pact soldiers’ eyes, but suddenly a sharp, whip-like tendril wraps around her midsection, and all she can get out is a strangled gasp as her breath is wrung from her lungs.

And all she can think as she is pulled down, off the root they had been climbing on, below Roza’s shout and the urgent swing of his scepter, is that from this angle, with the writhing, cursed life of the jungle so far underneath him, he looks so, so tiny.

How can one little sylvari hope to do so much?

Roza snaps his glider open, angles it, and dives.

Kasmeer’s heart leaps even as she feels the air being crushed out of her chest. Mordrem are climbing up the vines, crawling like insects. They’ll kill him. There are too many. They’ll kill _her_ , but he can get away. _Leave!_ she wants to yell out, but she can’t speak. She can't breathe. Her vision is dotting with black spots, her eyes fluttering shut. She hopes Jory knows she loves her.

Then she feels Roza’s magic.

It isn’t like Marjory’s. It isn’t _anything_ like hers. It is a roaring, angry, hideous thing, seeped in death and hatred and everything else that he is feeling. She’s… never seen it like this. He keeps it so tied up. He keeps _himself_ tied up, in a tight little string with a bow, packaged and neat, sharp at the edges but still tucked away. Now there is none of that.

The vine wrapped around Kasmeer falls first, and she can _feel_ it die. She feels a brush of magic as it does too, cold and furious, and she shivers.

Roza doesn’t say anything to her as he drops down. The Mordrem have reached them, slithering, reaching, hissing about Mordremoth. Roza bares his teeth, virulent and bitter. His magic reaches out—he yanks jaggedly with an arm—and he—slices.

And they all just die.

He just kills them.

Kasmeer can feel their lives being severed from their bodies.

Now Roza speaks to her. “Kasmeer!” he shouts, and he rushes over, his face the picture of alarmed concern. The jaggedness is still there, a little bit, but it is receding into the smoothness of his bark, ebbing away.

Kasmeer looks at the dead bodies surrounding them. Even Marjory can’t do that, she doesn’t say.

Roza’s magic is still lingering in the air, a black mark on the corpses surrounding them. Kasmeer can’t focus on anything else, even as he fusses and flutters over her. It’s so strange for him that she would have laughed, otherwise. She should laugh, or maybe tease him about recording what he’s saying and showing the rest of their group. But she can’t. Her voice is stuck in her throat.

The fourth thing Kasmeer notices about Roza is that he can be terrifying.

~*~

_(Can I show you?)_

“I think I have found something hidden in the shadows,” Roza says, and even as he speaks the room goes dim.

The candle on Trahearne’s desk, prematurely lit since there is still some sunlight filtering in through the canvas, flickers twice and snuffs out. But the small shadows cast by it do not disappear—instead they darken, stretching towards Roza. The other objects in the tent do much the same, yawning their tenebrous copies towards his outstretched hand. Trahearne looks down, and sees his own is unaffected.

“Interesting,” he says. “I take this is a different way of draining life force?”

Roza’s head dips in a nod. The shadows curl at his feet, clinging to him like smoke. His eyes seem impossibly darker. “There is life in everything,” he says lowly.

“So if you were to do it to me…” Trahearne leaves the question open. Roza tilts his head.

“I am told the effect is less than pleasant,” he says mildly, as if he were talking about anything other than killing a living person.

“Control is the key to strength, Commander,” Trahearne replies. “Do it. Try.”

~*~

“I’m glad you’re alright, Canach,” says Roza, and he says it so easily, as if he’s pretending that they are both not made out of thorns and brambles and closed, prickling hearts.

“I am as well,” Canach returns, arching the words. “It would be a pity if I had perished at the hands of some petty human necromancer. I mean, skeletons, really?”

“Too brittle for my tastes,” Roza murmurs, a hint of their familiar banter leaking through his lips. His eyes shift to Countess Anise, who is walking demurely along beside them. “Anise is lucky you’re alive. Elsewise I would have killed her.”

He says it simply. Anise laughs, as if she thinks it is a joke, but Canach has been leashed to her long enough to notice the way it rings falsely. Roza hasn’t, but he hones in on fear like a bloodhound, keen to exploit it like the wretched thing he is. Inwardly, Canach smiles.

After a moment has passed and Roza hasn’t bothered to rephrase himself, Anise speaks. “Is it wise, Commander,” she wonders out loud, malleable and soft, “To speak so openly about your… emotions?”

Demmi, following along behind them, casts them a nervous glance but says nothing. She’s Whispers, Canach can already tell. She’ll probably have a ball telling her superiors all about this later.

Roza stops walking. They stop with him, even Canach as he recognises the action as the small display of power it is. Roza looks at Anise and smiles, sweet and airy.

“Let us not speak in pretenses,” he says, matching her satin tone. “You want an alliance with me not because I am a strong ally, but because I am a threat to Kryta if I am not chained. Am I wrong?”

A direct challenge. Anise narrows her eyes. “I wouldn’t be so eager to ruin your diplomatic prospects, Commander,” she returns, and the falseness is gone from her voice.

Roza’s smile reaches his eyes. “But you forget, my dear,” he murmurs, “I am not the Pact commander anymore. _My_ chains have already dropped.”

He walks forwards without waiting for a response. Canach takes a second to relish in the minute clenching of Anise’s jaw before following him. A foolish decision for him, perhaps, considering his billet. Still, one that feels oh so good to make.

He is not a sylvari keen to subservience. If he has to choose, however, between a devil and a madwoman, he will recognize that they are both the same blasted woman, and he will pick Roza.

~*~

_(Do it.)_

Roza draws in a breath, but Trahearne knows it is one of focus, not one of preparation. His eyelids fall halfway, and his lips part, just barely. The shadows rise. Then, faintly, Trahearne feels a… tug.

It is far softer than he thought it would be. Instead of a powerful dark force, it is a whisper, an offer. A hint of temptation. A _Give yourself to me_. It would be so easy, to comply. It feels as if it would be easy.

This is an arcane exercise, Trahearne reminds himself. That is why he does surrender to the whisper, falling towards it and opening his soul.

And then it is everywhere.

Roza is all around him, his magic dark, deep, and swirling. His _essence_ is there, laid bare to be seen in its entirety. It is all-encompassing. Trahearne, shrunk down as he is, feels like a droplet in an endless pool. He is no poet and there is no visual, but if he had to put the sensation into words, he would say that that pool is beautiful, dark but shimmering with stars. It is easy to understand, suddenly, why Roza has leaned away from reanimation. His magic is not of death. It is of the soul. He is not the terror of darkness—he is the comfort of it, muffled and quiet.

Trahearne pulls away. It is easy enough to do—he is mostly within himself, having only leant a fraction of his life force to Roza. He opens his eyes, realizing only as he does so that they have closed. Roza is looking at him.

“Your magic is powerful,” he says, his voice hushed. He inclines his head. “I am humbled. Thank you for letting me do that.”

“Necromancy does not need to be a destructive force,” Trahearne murmurs, scratching at the base of his neck. “You can lend your own life essence to your allies, as well. Remember that.”

He is distracted. That had been so…. That had been an experience. Roza speaks as he used to, as if they are not equals and one day he will not grow into his own and easily match Trahearne’s power. Or as if he does not have any of his own, and Trahearne knows that is not true, because he had _felt_ it. And it had felt like silver lips curling into a smile, dark and promising.

He clears his throat. Roza looks up, attention drawn.

“Is everything alright, Trahearne?” His gaze is alert. “I apologize if that was somewhat… intense. I tried to hold back, but I think the Dream was artificially augmenting the connection. I might try again with a human to more accurately gauge my level of control.”

Trahearne is already absently nodding, but there is something else, a warning ringing sharply through his mind. “Roza. Don’t try that around Nightmare Court.”

Roza’s head raises. “I was exposing myself,” he realizes.

“Yes.” Trahearne takes a deep breath, letting it out as he collects himself. “I could feel your…” Everything. “… power, but also your vulnerability. Mind yourself.”

Roza nods deeply. “I will.”

Then his eyes sparkle with something that sends a curious tingle down Trahearne’s spine. He starts to smile.

“If that is the case,” he murmurs, “Then I can think of no better test than to try again with you. What do you say, Marshal?”

He grins. Trahearne licks his lips, a little nervously.

Pale Mother help him.

~*~

“That was… unexpected, how openly you spoke to our dear Countess.” Canach pauses before he leaves the late Confessor’s room, one hand braced against the doorframe. “Of course, _I_ would never deign to mind my word choice, but I thought you would have more decorum.”

Roza draws in a long, thoughtful breath, drumming his fingers against the desk. “I loathe that wretched, vile old woman,” he says, casual as you please. “She has her hooks into three of my friends. That, I think, I will never forget nor forgive, no matter how many veiled compliments she gets people to nudge my way.”

There are a million possible ways to respond to that incredibly loaded statement, and Canach only stares for a second as he lets it sink in. Of all things, however, he finds himself saying, “Old?”

Roza gives him a look. “Really,” he says, in a tone that holds something like condescension, but with a strange familiarity that feels, surprisingly, almost conspiratorial. “Do you think I am so magically inept that I do not notice powerful mesmer magic when it is trotting along right next to me?”

He smirks, faint but there. The expression is full of a confidence that is more than bordering on arrogance, but Canach is slowly beginning to see it from a different angle. For once, for _once_ , he actually finds it to be… strangely comforting.

Huh.

“Friend?” he questions. His voice feels unnaturally loud in the empty manor.

Roza inclines his head. “You are a good friend, Canach,” he says simply.

“And you’re a threat to Kryta now.” Even as he says it, Canach can feel himself start to smile.

Roza laughs. “Glad to hear it.” His teeth flash in a grin. “Take care of yourself, Brother.”

He steps backwards into the shadows and vanishes. Canach stares after him, minding the lingering tingle of necrotic energy prickling at his bark.

“You too,” he mutters. He tries to keep the fondness out of his tone. “Show-off.”

~*~

“Kasmeer,” Roza says quietly. His hand splays over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” She hiccups, wiping the back of her thumb over her eye. “I… I don’t know why I’m still crying. I know you’re not dead anymore. I-I just…”

“It’s alright.” His voice is hushed. Over the faint whirring of the airship, it would be barely discernable if he weren’t sitting right next to her. He is a warmth at her side, the dark fabric of his skirt folding against hers. “It’s a lot, I know.”

“I thought it was just one of your tricks, you know?” she whispers. “That you were just being an asshole, and at any moment you’d shout ‘Surprise!’ and laugh about having scared us.”

She hadn’t, deep down. Because there is necromancy, and then there is a point where a body is too mutilated, too burnt, too cleaved in _half—_ where nothing can be done. But she had thought—she had hoped _—_

“And then I’d yell at you about it not being funny and then you wouldn’t apologize and then I’d say that we could never be friends ever again,” Kasmeer says, and, covering her face with her hands, begins to cry again.

She doesn’t notice her hair fade from burnished gold to blonde as the light of the setting sun leaves it, nor the warmth of colour leaking away from Roza’s bark. She doesn’t notice the area around them darken as their shadows sink and pool, then rise up. She does notice, when she looks up, that she can’t see anything except for just the two of them.

“To give you some privacy,” Roza mutters. His voice is muted, swallowed up by his shadows. “Rytlock and Canach are too close for my comfort.”

She breathes in, an audible noise. Roza’s eyes crease, and then he reaches up, curling one narrow finger underneath her eye to wipe away her tears.

“There,” he murmurs. “I am clearing away the sadness that I have caused. Shed it all, and I will bear it all for you.”

She chokes out a laugh. “I don’t even know what that means, you weirdo,” she mumbles, but she is beginning to smile. She swipes her wrist across her cheek.

“It means that I think you’re my very best friend, Kas.” Roza’s voice drops. “And the next person who makes you cry I will kill, probably violently. Even if that person is myself.”

She laughs again, pithy and wet. “I think by consequence _that_ would make me cry.”

“It’s a vicious cycle,” Roza agrees with a wink.

She looks at him, her face rumpling into a spoilt smile before she pulls him into a hug. To her surprise, he doesn’t stiffen or lean away from her. He returns the embrace, wrapping his arms around her gently, if carefully. He is… warm, thrumming with magic and life. The opposite of what his corpse had been just ten minutes ago.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” Kasmeer threatens. “Or I’ll… I’ll…”

Roza hushes her, pressing a chaste kiss to her hair. That’s all it takes for her to start crying again.

~*~

“Did you know, Marshal, that breaks are allocated time slots in your day in which you simply do nothing at all?”

Trahearne glances up, his pen pausing to hover above his page. Roza is leaning against the doorframe, gazing at him with half-lidded eyes. His voice is a careless murmur, which seems to be the direction he has chosen to take his newfound vocal habit of… whatever it is. Trahearne is… grateful for the more appropriate tone. Of course.

“That may be the case, Commander, but there is a lot of work that needs to be done, and there is only one person here who holds the position of Marshal.” The corner of Trahearne’s mouth lifts slightly. “Not that I don’t appreciate your concern. However, I need to be practical.”

“Rest is practical.” Roza straightens up. “Wars aren’t won by tired soldiers, you know that.”

Trahearne sighs, sinking into his chair. “That may be true,” he admits, perhaps too easily. He drops his pen on his desk, wringing out his cramped hand.

Roza looks pleased. Before he can get too smug about his small victory, Trahearne says, “And what about you, Commander? Should you not heed your own advice?”

Roza shrugs one shoulder. His expression settles again, eyes drooping to gaze unflappably.

He seemingly intends to simply stare Trahearne down. His body language is amusingly familiar, and Trahearne finds himself smiling as he draws a mental comparison. “You know, you remind me of a cat sometimes,” he comments, voicing it.

That startles a gentle laugh out of his commander, who shakes his head. “I doubt I’d purr if you pet me,” he says.

There is a pause. It goes on for long enough that Roza leans forward, peering at him curiously.

“Trahearne?” he calls. “Are you alright?”

Trahearne clears his throat. “Yes, sorry. I think you are correct, Commander; I’m getting quite tired. Work can wait until morning.”

Roza chuckles. “There we go,” he says. “You were…” And he makes a blank expression, eyes hazy, mouth slightly open. 

By the Pale Tree. “Yes, the late hour is taking its toll on me,” Trahearne agrees, perhaps a little hurriedly. “Even we necromancers cannot fully flourish in the night.”

Roza gifts him with a smile. “Come on,” he says, extending an arm. “I’ll walk you.”

He is glowing a gentle lavender, the pulses softening the flickering shadows of the room. Trahearne pushes back his chair, getting up with a sigh. Leaning down, he blows his candle out.

He takes Roza’s arm in their dimly lit darkness, and they leave.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> bonus:
> 
> "' _I doubt I'd purr if you pet me?_ '" Canach noisily stomps out of the Scrying Pool. "Thorns, Roza."  
> Roza groans. "I know. _I know_."  
> ~
> 
> ;v; please tell me what you think! much love! <3  
> [song if u want to feel sad](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7pB1IcnK3Q)


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